


no remedy for memory

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e16 Paradise Lost, F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Escape is always a tempting prospect, but right now, there are trees and flowers andsunlightcalling her.





	no remedy for memory

**Author's Note:**

> Ohmygosh, it's been SO LONG since I wrote anything.....and also SO LONG since I started this. It's a combination response to two prompts: one, for Jemma/Hive in Paradise Lost, and the other, for something in the same verse as my [collarbone kiss](http://shineyma.tumblr.com/post/150600176512/parasimmons-and-collarbone-kiss-please-and-thank) drabble. You might wanna read that first, but you shouldn't need to in order to understand this.
> 
> I'm so far behind on comment replies I might just give up and call those a wash. Sorry? The last six months have been....rough.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

The manor house is large and lovely, all grey stone and implied wealth, but Jemma barely spares it a glance. Her attention is captivated by something much more inviting.

Towering trees and green, green grass surround the house, stretching beyond and behind it, hinting at further wonders yet to be observed. The sun is shining in the clear blue sky, beaming down on the flowers and shrubbery lining the drive.

She’s been underground for so _long_.

“Jemma,” Alveus chides. “You’re being rude.”

The rebuke bounces easily off of her sun-warmed skin. Vaguely, she’s aware there are introductions being made—a beautiful blonde woman is looking at Alveus with blatant awe—but they make no difference to her. Alveus is madder than she thought if he truly expects her to pay mind to anything but the beautiful, warm sun.

He sighs.

“Forgive her,” he says to the blonde woman. “Jemma has been feeling claustrophobic in your father’s bunker. I thought some time outside of it would soothe her.”

“Of course,” the woman—Malick’s daughter?—beams. “You don’t owe me any explanation; I’m honored to welcome you both.”

The worshipful tone distracts Jemma, if only briefly. It’s become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, trapped as she’s been in the hydra’s den, but she’s only heard it from guards and servants and Malick before. Coming from this woman—who looks rather as though she belongs in a top floor office somewhere, ruling over a Fortune 500 company with a stylishly accessorized iron fist—it’s somewhat jarring.

“Honored?” she asks.

“Of course,” Malick’s daughter says, looking politely affronted by the question. “To open our home to our god—what higher honor could there be?”

Ah. That explains it.

“Brainwashed,” Jemma decides, though not without sympathy.

Poor thing; doubtless she was raised from birth to believe this delusion that Alveus is some sort of divine being. The disappointment when she learns otherwise (because she _will_ ; the team will come for Jemma and rescue her and thoroughly destroy Alveus in the process, she’s sure of it) will be brutal.

Malick’s daughter blinks at the declaration, obviously taken aback, and Alveus squeezes Jemma’s hand in warning. She hadn’t even realized he was holding it.

Experimentally, she attempts to tug away. It’s a relief when he releases her easily.

“Stephanie and I have things to discuss,” he says, favoring Malick’s daughter—Stephanie—with a gentle smile. She appears a bit flustered. “Inside.”

Jemma takes an automatic step back—a thoughtless physical rejection of the mere suggestion. It hasn’t even been five minutes! He can’t mean to drag her away from the sun so soon, can he? Even _his_ cruelty must have its limits.

Fortunately, it does.

“Go,” Alveus says, waving her off. “You may explore for as long as you please, but do not leave the property.”

Jemma ignores the order, knowing it’s meant more for the listening men than for her. She has no idea where the property’s boundaries lie, but the guards now know to watch her and ensure she doesn’t cross them. Without the order, they might have feared to offer her insult by restricting her movements; with it, they know that doing otherwise will enrage their god. She won’t be sneaking away today.

That’s fine. Escape is always a tempting prospect, but right now, there are trees and flowers and _sunlight_ calling her.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, mostly reflexively, to Stephanie.

Then she’s off like a shot, hurrying away before Alveus can take back the freedom he’s granted her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The grounds of Malick’s estate are beautiful. Behind the house, the trees grow close and tall, forming a wood large enough to get lost in—a wood full of colorful shrubs, flowering plants, and even a small pond. After so long spent trapped in an underground bunker (and in such unpleasant company)…it’s like paradise.

Naturally, it can’t last.

Barely two hours after Alveus releases her to explore, she’s forced to stop. It’s been weeks since she was first kidnapped—since Giyera and Ward tortured her—but she hasn’t yet fully recovered, and the pain in her ribs is becoming too severe to ignore. A break is necessary.

The break itself isn’t the problem. There’s a conveniently placed boulder in a large clearing, perfect for sitting on and basking in the warm rays of the lovely afternoon sun. Soaking in the warmth and the light, she can almost forget her circumstances, and any time _that_ is possible is a time to be treasured.

No, what ruins her little slice of heaven is, of course, Alveus.

His pleased “Jemma” alerts her to his arrival, and she opens her eyes to find him entering the clearing, trailed by Malick. That, in itself, isn’t unusual (Malick is not a _constant_ presence, but he is a frequent one); the clear tension on Malick’s face, on the other hand…

Since the moment she met him, Malick has been a picture of arrogant composure. Even when she tried to attack him, he only laughed. Now, however, he’s looking decidedly nervous.

And is he _fidgeting_?

Alveus notices her preoccupation and turns slightly to regard Malick.

“You may return to the house,” he dismisses (in more ways than one; he barely makes eye contact with Malick before he’s looking away again, returning his attention to Jemma). “Jemma and I will be along presently.”

“Of course,” Malick says, though his jovial tone sounds slightly off. “Let the men know if you need anything.”

Alveus nods his acknowledgement, freeing Malick to stride away—though he does it a bit too quickly to be deemed casual.

Jemma’s determination to shut Alveus out wages a brief war against her curiosity and is soundly defeated. She can’t let Malick’s strange behavior pass unremarked—not if she has any hope of getting answers about it.

“He’s looking squirrely,” she observes.

“Hm.” Alveus smiles, as he always does when she speaks to him with neither invective nor prompting, but there’s an unusual edge to it. “The answer to a question which has long haunted Gideon approaches. He fears it will be yes.”

She scowls at her knees. It’s just vague enough to arouse her curiosity further—deliberately, no doubt. Expressing interest in anything is a surefire way to get Alveus to hold his tongue; he’ll force her to draw the answers out of him, to ask again and again and drag the conversation on for _ages_.

Of course, she could always simply let it go—force herself to be satisfied with the non-answer and forget the whole thing—but Malick’s behavior is too odd to be brushed aside and forgotten. She’s never seen him so rattled.

So, steeling herself for the trials ahead, she asks, “What question is that?”

“Whether I retain the memories of my vessels.”

Jemma could have told Malick that, but it’s not something she wants to dwell on—now or ever.

“Why would that bother him?”

“He was very close to one of my vessels,” Alveus says, and…changes.

A shiver crawls down Jemma’s spine. She can _see_ the shift come over him, the slide away from his own personality and into…another’s. But whose? Not Will’s—she’d recognize him at once, and in any case, she believes she frightened even Alveus with the way she broke down the last (the _only_ ) time he pretended to be Will; she doubts he’ll be repeating that trick anytime soon.

Not Ward’s, either. The serious set to Alveus’ shoulders, the gravity in his expression…that’s not Ward.

Which means this is a man (or the _echo_ of a man, really) she’s never met and, therefore, can’t possibly predict. There’s no telling how he might react to her questions—especially if he and Malick have some sort of unpleasant history.

Perhaps it’s better if she lets this go for now. She doesn’t want to set it aside _forever_ , but it can wait until he’s himself again.

As much as she hates Alveus, she’s come to understand him at least a little. With Alveus, she knows how far and how hard she can push. With one of his vessels…well, no one wants a repeat of the knife incident, least of all her.

No sooner has she resigned herself to waiting, however, than he continues unprompted.

“Nathaniel Malick,” he says, eyes drifting in the direction Malick went. “His own brother.” He shakes his head. “He betrayed all of our ideals to save his own life—and tainted the ancient, holy selection ceremony in the process. He’s no better than our father.”

Jemma swallows. She doesn’t know which disturbs her more: the use of _our_ or the tears shining in Alveus’ eyes.

“Now he’s terrified at just the _possibility_ the memory of his betrayal might live on.” He scoffs, though it sounds more sad than disdainful. “Coward.”

“And what will you do to him?” she asks. “For the betrayal?”

She hopes to bring Alveus back to the forefront with the question—and does. Between one blink and the next his grief is gone, replaced by a wicked sort of smile.

“Punish him, of course,” he says. “He blasphemed against me when he interfered with the selection ceremony.”

“You’re going to kill him?” It’s a pleasant thought.

“Oh, no,” Alveus says, softly enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. “No, Gideon wanted nothing more than to live, and live he shall.”

“Then…?”

“That was then.” For the first time since entering the clearing, he turns fully away from her to face the way Malick left—towards the house, she thinks. “All these decades later, there is one thing—one _person_ —Gideon values even above his own life: his daughter.”

“No!”

Jemma’s on her feet before she even knows she means to stand, but she doesn’t let the surprise make her falter—any more than the incredulity with which Alveus has turned to regard her.

“No?” he echoes.

“You can’t kill Stephanie for something her father did _decades_ ago!” she snaps.

Alveus tips his head, regarding her with interest. “I didn’t realize she’d left such an impression. You barely spoke to her.”

“I didn’t need to speak to her to know that woman _worships_ you.” Inexplicably, there’s a lump in her throat; she swallows hard, fighting a wave of emotion she barely understands. “You’re a _god_ to her—and unless there’s something you’ve neglected to mention, _she’s_ been perfectly loyal. You can’t repay her devotion with death. You _can’t_.”

“Can’t I?” he asks, but there’s no menace in it. He’s studying her with an off-putting intensity, eyes sharp enough to peel the skin from her bones.

Jemma has to turn away from it—a mistake, of course. He closes the distance between them in seconds, crossing the clearing so quickly and silently that she only knows he’s moved when his arms wrap around her waist.

She has no idea where the sob that rises up in her chest comes from.

“Why do you care?” he asks—voicing her own confusion. “You would celebrate Gideon’s death. Why should the prospect of Stephanie’s cause you to raise your voice to me?”

A wave of indignation chases away some of her puzzling grief. “As though I need _cause_ to raise my voice—”

“Perhaps,” Alveus goes on, “you misspoke. Perhaps it is not that Stephanie worships me, but that she _believes_ in me.”

Her breath catches.

“Stephanie has spent her whole life awaiting my return,” he muses. “That I’ve finally arrived…I give her _hope_.”

“It’s misplaced,” she says—barely. The lump in her throat has become a boulder, a _mountain_. She can hardly breathe at all.

He smiles against her temple. “You don’t want her to die knowing she put her faith in the wrong person.”

She’s crying. Of course she’s crying. The man she loves is dead and the monster who killed him is determined to take his place, to take _possession_  of her, and Stephanie _believes_ in this monster, believes in the false hope he’s promised her the same way Will believed in Jemma, that she could get him home, and—

It’s a wonder she ever stops crying, really.

“Shh, Jemma.” Alveus moves—turning her in his arms, cradling her head against his chest, rubbing her back as she sobs into his coat. She finds she’s too overwrought to shove away from him. “Shh. Be at peace. I won’t kill her.”

So unexpected is the last bit, it actually shocks her into calmness—of a sort. She’s still crying, but with a little effort, she manages to swallow down her sobs and get a hold on her composure again. After a moment of painfully deep breathing, she’s able to look up at him, to meet his eyes and gauge his sincerity.

“Really?”

Alveus smiles benevolently down at her. Her heart sinks.

“On one condition?” she guesses.

“Letting Stephanie live will mean I must change a number of plans,” he says reasonably. “Why should I not receive some recompense for my trouble?”

“Ugh,” Jemma says, and pushes away from him. He lets her out of the circle of his arms, but catches her wrist before she gets out of reach—firmly enough that she knows he won’t allow her to break _this_ hold. “Fine. What do you want?”

He considers her in silence. She’s still crying a bit (it’s not as though she can just stop her tears on a dime after a sobbing fit like that), which she supposes is the reason for his pitying frown. Impatiently, she swipes at her damp cheeks.

“Well?” she asks.

His fingers flex slightly around her wrist. “Kiss me.”

“How _dare_ you—”

“Come, Jemma,” he says, appearing not to even notice her attempt to rip her wrist out of his grasp. “Is it really so much to ask? A single kiss for Stephanie’s _life_?”

“Let me _go_ , you bastard,” she snaps, yanking harder against his hold—but the violent (attempt at) motion pulls too much at her still-healing ribs, and she sees stars as pain knifes down her side.

Alveus hushes her as she cries out and tries to gather her close again, but even as she struggles to catch her breath, she dodges his hold.

“Careful,” he scolds. Still, he doesn’t try again to hug her; in fact, he _finally_ releases her wrist. “You’re still not well.”

“And whose fault is _that_?” she demands, no less furious for all that she’s still breathless. Though the sudden flare of pain has passed, it’s set her ribs to aching, and her whole chest is tight with pain.

(Admittedly, some of that might be emotional.)

“Gideon’s,” Alveus says at once. “It was on _his_ order that you were tortured. That sort of order deserves punishment, don’t you think?”

“I am _not_ going to kiss you,” she says, in lieu of an argument about appropriate punishments.

“Then Stephanie dies.”

It’s said so casually, with so little concern—not a threat, but a statement of fact. Jemma’s ribs ache.

She doesn’t owe Stephanie anything. And who’s to say that Stephanie’s innocent, anyway? She may not be guilty of her father’s crimes, but she’s still _Hydra_. She might have killed people—might even be a danger to Jemma’s team. She’s certainly complicit in Jemma’s captivity, worshipping Alveus as she does.

Jemma doesn’t owe her _anything_.

…But she owes Will everything, and rightly or wrongly (wrongly, she _knows_ it’s wrongly), she’s managed to link the two in her mind.

Stephanie doesn’t deserve to die like Will did. No one does.

“Fine,” she says. “Fine. If I kiss you, you won’t kill Stephanie?”

“That’s the deal,” he says serenely.

“ _Or_ order her killed?” she presses. “Or bring about her death in any other way?”

“She will live,” he promises. “You have my word.”

“All right.” Jemma looks up at the sky—beginning to cloud over but no less beautiful and _open_ —and takes a breath that stabs at her ribs. “Okay.”

Alveus smiles. “Okay?”

“I’m accepting your deal,” she says clearly.

“Excellent,” he says.

Jemma looks at him expectantly.

He smiles back.

She raises her eyebrows.

He spreads his hands.

Of _course_ he’s going to make _her_ kiss _him_. The kiss isn’t enough alone; no, he has to make _her_ initiate it.

Bastard.

“Fine,” she mutters and—rather childishly—stomps over to him.

As she gets within range, however, inspiration strikes. She may have taken the extra moment to clarify that Stephanie wouldn’t die at all, but he added no qualifiers to _her_ end of things.

And so once she’s close enough, she fists her hands in his coat, pulls herself onto her toes, and kisses him very quickly…on the cheek.

“That doesn’t count,” he says, mildly, as she lowers herself and steps back.

“You didn’t specify,” she reminds him. “Our deal was a kiss for Stephanie’s life. That _was_ a kiss.”

Alveus sighs, though his smile hasn’t faded one bit. “So it was. Very well, my Jemma. I gave you my word and I will keep it. Stephanie will live.”

“Excellent,” Jemma says, buoyed by the satisfaction of getting one over on him. Even the _my Jemma_ doesn’t bother her; after weeks of being trapped with him, this was exactly what she needed: a reminder that he _won’t_ always win.

He may have all the power, but she’s still a genius—and that’s all the power she’s ever needed.

“I _will_ get a real kiss out of you eventually,” he adds, still smiling. “Perhaps even more than one.”

“No,” she says, “you really won’t.”

With that, she turns on her heel and heads deeper into the woods. No doubt she’ll be dragged into the house eventually, but in the meantime, she’s not going to waste a second more of this fleeting freedom on _him_.

Alveus’ disagreeing “I will” follows her, but she doesn’t let it touch her. She knows now she can outsmart him.

She has nothing to fear.


End file.
